


Hating It/Loving It

by JaqofSpades



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas in the Mansion with Logan and Marie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hating It

**Author's Note:**

> These stories were originally posted as responses to Christmas challenges some three years apart. Hating It was written in 2008, and the sequel, Loving It, for the 12 days of FicMas challenge in 2011. They dovetail nicely, so I'm presenting them as chapter one and chapter two here.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want you, and I’m hating it,” he whispered to the dark corners of his room. “I want to be your friend, or mentor or something. Not some dirty old man who just can’t wait for you to grow up a bit.”

Hating It  
***  
The rest of the year, he could manage. He could be gruff and surly and distant, and no one noticed. But Christmas – Christmas was difficult.

Everyone at the mansion exchanged gifts. Two years ago, if anyone had’a told Logan he’d be buying gifts for an assortment of teachers, teenagers and children, he would have roared in their face. But here he was, in Scott’s room, going over a friggin shopping list.

This year, he was buying for Stormy, the Popsicle, several young girls who were terrified of him, and Kevin, who he actually knew due to their mutual late-night-tv habit. He was pretty sure Kevin would get a laugh out of Mr Potato or whatever it was called, and Storm was a safe bet for a book, but as for the others … it was worse than buying for Marie.

She wasn’t on his assigned list, but he always bought for Marie.

Logan felt his jaw clench at the thought, and resented the fact such a little thing could make him so tense. Uptight, he thought, shooting a glare at Scooter – perhaps it was friggen catching. How hard could a present for a 17 year old be? 

Visions of lingerie and tight, tight leather pants began to dance in his head, tormenting him until his body began to stir. He stared hard at Scooter’s list of suggestions until the urge passed. Then the words “vanilla body cream” caught his eye. He had wondered at the array of scents the giggle squad wore – chemical-doused strawberry, radioactive lime, some sort of mutated grapefruit – but Marie was the only one who wore vanilla. And it was a pure, natural scent that had more to do with the long pods she loved to cook with than anything else. Still, Logan scribbled a “W” next to the item, and reserved it. No one should smell like vanilla except Marie.

His train of thought made it essential he get the task over with and get someplace more private. He’d learned the hard way that marking the first ten items on the list wasn’t considered sufficient thought, so he scrawled his W randomly in nine other locations and turned his back to leave.

“Merry Christmas, Logan,” the Professor offered as he left the room. He tried to return the cheery smile, but his mind had long since fled into dangerous territory, so a waved salute would have to do. If there was one thing to be thankful for in his twisted past, it was his scrambled synapses. They made reading his mind impossible, something for which Logan was profoundly thankful. 

Sometimes he wondered if the world was playing a friggin’ practical joke on him. Him: older than the hills, mentally scarred and physically uncontrollable, mean, unsociable son-of-a-bitch. Her: giving, loving, trusting, compassionate and friendly. “You forget ‘jailbait’ and ‘illegal’” his conscience added. Logan told his conscience to shut the fuck up, and that he had never once forgotton. Hence his problem.

*

Most days, he could ignore the girl, and what she did to him. Workouts were hard, admittedly, but he was her combat teacher for Chrissake – it was his job to keep a close eye on her technique. And correct her physically. He made damn sure that Marie got no more attention than any other teenager in his class, and just because she was the only one he ENJOYED correcting … they didn’t know that. And sparring after hours didn’t count, anyways. Wasn’t his fault Marie was the only one with guts enough to take him on, outta class.

Most days, he was able to stonewall her when she brushed up against him, and those moments after a takedown when she liked to breathe naughty suggestions straight into his ear. After the first few times, when his body reacted from sheer surprise, he even told her off. Told her no kid had any business knowing about that sorta’ stuff. “It’d work better if ya weren’t touching her at the time, bub,” his conscience snorted. “And ya think Marie don’t know when you’re taking a fall?”

He growled halfheartedly at the allegation, but didn’t pursue it. OK – combat was hard, too. But Christmas was MUCH harder.

He had the gift stash to prove it.

First Christmas, they’d just arrived in the mansion, and after all that shit with Magneto and his goons, he’d had to take off for a bit. It was late December when he returned, his bag heavy with a brand new set of women’s motorcycle leathers .

He’d seen them hanging in the admin area of the garage he’d been forced to visit in Vancouver. He should have been thinking about the shudder that had developed whenever he pushed the bike above 60, but one look and he couldn’t think of anything other than her, and them, and her in them. He’d put in an order on the spot; never once asking himself exactly how he knew what size she was.

Wasn’t until he got back on Christmas Eve, and seen her parading around in the skintight leathers, he realised that it wasn’t quite … right. She looked 21, not 15, and the invitation was pretty damn clear, too. He’d taken her out riding a few times, ignoring the press of black leather and warm girl on his back, before announcing he had to head back up north. And it wasn’t safe for her to be on a motorcycle with anyone but him, so maybe they should put the leathers away until he got back.

He’d been surprised how well she’d taken it really – no one likes an Indian giver – but the tears in her eyes when she caught him at the door told the real story. It wasn’t the leathers she would miss. So he’d wrapped her hand around the tags, and told her he would be back, and prayed she hadn’t been playing kisschasy with a psi that day. 

The next Christmas he never even made it back. He’d sent her a cheesy card, with a CD from some band she’d told him she liked. Weren’t as if she would’a been able to wear those scraps of silk he found in the fancy department store, anyway. That deep green colour had reminded him of that big coat she had on when they met, but the way those soft little shorts would’a left her legs bare … he woulda’ heard Scooter sniffing “not appropriate” from the other side of the continent.

Course, when he did come back, it was to spend half a night with her running around in that skimpy black thing … The irony would'a made him laugh, if he hadn't been busy choking. Her legs might have been covered, but dragging his eyes offa the top half of her got harder and harder. He’d never been more thankful to see a house in his life, even if he’d had to watch Popsicle disappear upstairs with her in an attempt to find clothes for the girl. He’d wanted to gut the boy for even looking at her, but hey – he was a kid. So was she. And getting the life sucked outta him might actually stop the boy from trying anything.

Sometimes Logan hated his healing factor. If he tried something, the only thing that could stop him would be his conscience. Or Marie. And he wondered if either of them would even bother to try.

So, vanilla body cream for Christmas this year. That set of silk sheets he’d bought had been a crazy idea, anyway. She didn’t even have a double bed.

His conscience was strangely quiet on that front.

*

Logan stomped through the corridors, glaring at anyone who even thought about getting in his way. Inside his own room, the aggression dropped away, one more mask he could discard in the safety of his own room. He slumped in the armchair by the window and refused to look at the wide expanse of his bed. 

“I want you, and I’m hating it,” he whispered to the dark corners of his room. “I want to be your friend, or mentor or something. Not some dirty old man who just can’t wait for you to grow up a bit.”

He waited for the walls to scream at the confession, and let out a long breath when nothing happened. Livin’ in this place could screw with your mind sometimes. Wouldn’t surprise him if the walls actually DID have ears. 

They didn’t, of course. Nothing so crude was required in a house full of the psi-enabled. Not to mention the aurally gifted. But it was neither of those things that would spell his downfall.

It was the girl about to knock on his door, whose perfectly ordinary ears still managed to pick up the tortured groan. Whose pulse hammered and skin tingled at the very thought of it.

Who decided she deserved something very, very special for Christmas.


	2. Loving It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So that's what they mean when they say "All her Christmases came at once!"

**Loving It**

***

He'd been moping for days, sinking further and further into that place he seemed to go every Christmas. Rogue, everyone thought, must have some secret knowledge of why Logan hated the festive season so much. Rogue, everyone said, should be able to talk him out of it. Rogue, everyone knew, had a special relationship with Logan – he wouldn't want to make her Christmas miserable. 

Rogue, she thought viciously, didn't have a clue.

She refused to go poking around in his memories just to satisfy someone else's curiosity, but something told her there was nothing there anyway. There was something in his eyes when he looked at her that told her they were the problem, or that she was. Her first Christmas here, it had been awkward, and the second, she'd felt abandoned. But last Christmas … she'd just learnt control and his coldness had been like a slap to her now-touchable face. She'd been dreading this since August, waiting for him to withdraw from her, to retreat behind a wall of “busy right now kid” and “have fun, Marie.”

Yet here she was, standing outside his door, trying to figure out what to say. She collected her courage and raised her hand to knock, when a long groan stopped her. Logan?

Undoubtedly him, that raw, strained whisper. Pitched low, but she could still hear every word. 

“I want you, and I’m hating it. I want to be your friend, or mentor or something. Not some dirty old man who just can’t wait for you to grow up a bit.”

She knew who he was talking about. She'd always known. Innocent virgin Marie was a convenient fiction they preserved for the sake of peace, but she had three teenage boys, an ancient lecher, a vile truck driver, and him in her head. And every one of those voices was keen to tell her just what it meant when his eyes drifted down her lycra-clad body, or shifted to dark gold after sparring. As if she couldn't have figured it out from the physical evidence anyway.

She wanted to answer him. To make all that pain and self-loathing go away. To make him happy. Not that way, she assured herself quickly, but then her thoughts ground to a halt.

Yes, that way, she realised. It was time. She'd finally learnt control. She was learning to fly the Blackbird. She was risking her life on a regular basis as a member of the X-men. She'd grown up, and he'd been so busy torturing himself, he'd missed that fact.

“Merry Christmas, Marie,” she murmured to herself, knowing he would hear it. She leaned into the door, and pressed her lips to the wood, leaving him with her scent and the sound of her kiss. “See you soon,” she breathed, then backed away to return to her own room.

The leathers were somewhere on her top shelf, she remembered. She just hoped they still fit.

*

He forgets to breathe when he hears her voice. She can't have heard him, his secret is safe, he tells himself, before giving in to puzzlement. Merry Christmas, Marie? Why would she wish herself a merry Christmas?

Then he hears the sound of her lips sliding together, a juicy pucker and the delicious rush of air as she releases the kiss against the wood. He bolts from the chair, and flings the door open, looking up the hall for her, but she's gone. Her scent, though. She's left her scent on his door, and the animal in him starts to growl and thrash at that, because – she's left her scent on his door. She's marked him as being hers, and suddenly, he knows what she wants for Christmas.

“Oh yeah,” his conscience jeers. “You're in so much trouble, bub.”

He tries to be worried. Panic stricken, even. But he knows the difference between anticipation and dread. And he's familiar with that slow, heavy, hot feeling, even if he hasn't indulged it lately.

“It's Christmas. Time for indulgence,” something whispers in his ear, and he hopes that's not his conscience, or they're well and truly screwed.

*

Turns out, they do still fit. The leather pants slide on like a dream – she might even be leaner, now, Marie realises. Daily combat training will do that for a girl, she figures.

The jacket, though. It's tight, and she's not sure it would be comfortable, zipped right to the top. It'll be fine for riding – she'd be wearing a shirt underneath, then. Now, though. She looks at herself in the mirror, and tugs the central zipper a bit lower. It's kinda … indecent, but she's breathing hard just looking at herself like this, black leather and a tremulous smile and such intent in her eyes.

She thinks about swapping her motorcycle boots for black stilettos, then scotches the idea. “Nothing like a pretty girl in butch boots,” he growls inside her head, and she tells him to quit it, because she's not going to do this in stereo. She's not sure she's ready to handle one Logan, let alone two, but the doubt is a tiny voice next to the excitement snapping at her nerves, and the slow wash of heat through her veins.

Her hair is up high in a ponytail, and she pulls it free, letting it fall about her. Long, sweeping strokes with the antique hair brush that has been with her since Meridian, every pass an exercise in sensuality. Kohl about her eyes, and lipstick, she decides. Her hand hovers over the more usual pinks and berries before digging to the bottom of her makeup bag for the one lipstick she's never worn. Chanel calls it 'Passion' and as the colour embraces every contour of her lush lips, she begins to believe it. The deep, dark red banishes her uncertainty, and looks downright sinful when her lips curve into a seductive smile.

“Promises, promises,” she murmurs, and swings her way out of the bathroom, and down the hall.

*

He's debating whether to go after her when he hears her boots striding down the hallway. Her scent follows a moment later, and Marie is suddenly married with leather, and pheromones, and heat. His mouth goes dry, and when she bangs on the door – three sharp raps, no sign of reticence at all – his feet won't move for a second.

And when they do move, his brain is screaming at him - “don't! Ignore it! Open that door and everything changes!” but it's too late, and everything has changed already. Everything changed the minute he met her, really, but they were too new to each other to know that, and now, they know each other, and they know what's at risk.

He yanks the door open wide. 

*

“Hello Logan.”

He's wearing a pair of tight jeans, no shoes, and a white t-shirt that is downright making love to his pecs. Usually she'd be struck dumb at the sight, but something – the leather? The lipstick? - is working for her tonight, so she doesn't just say hello. She practically purrs his name.

His mouth is moving, but when nothing but splutters eventuate, she realises he is the one who has been struck dumb tonight. She laughs at that, and her triumph makes her bold. She places a hand in the middle of his chest (pecs, her libido moans) and pushes hard, so that he stumbles backwards into the room. She calmly turns and locks the door, then stalks back to him. Poor, dazed man. 

“You are my friend, you know. The best friend I'll ever have. Part of that is because you are an amazing mentor. You taught me how to look after myself, you taught me how to lead a team, you taught me to stand up for other people. But you didn't teach me those things because I was a student, or because I was a teenager who needed your help – you taught me because you were my friend, Logan. You cared about me.”

She drags in a breath and blinks back the tears that were threatening to fall.

“And yes, I was 15, and 16, and I'm still 17, but … we've waited, Logan. I've grown up. I'm 18 in two weeks and maybe we should wait until I'm legal and all, but … sugar. You're not a rules and regulations man.”

She steps into his body then, sliding her thighs right up to his and resting her head on his chest. “You're not a dirty old man. You're not. You're not forcing me into anything. You're not taking advantage. You're just … I'm kinda hoping that … ”

Nerve fails her, just for a second. She thinks of how she looked in the bathroom mirror, all sleek black leather and lush curves. She remembers that deep, dark red and looks up, into his eyes, strong again.

“You're just taking what's yours, sugar. And I'm taking what's mine.”

She stands on tiptoe, then, and makes it clear that the time for talking is past. Red lipstick stains his lips, then smears a path down the side of his neck. His chest is decorated with it, and in return, he transfers the colour back onto her body, marking her in a thousand dark red smears.

Christmas carols drift through the open window as she helps him pull off her boots and peel the leather down her legs. He wants to stay there, and she is tempted to let him, until an icy draught on her bare upper body reminds her that he is big, and warm, and she wants to wrap herself in the strength and heat of him.

“I need you,” she moans, and he returnsto her, making her warm, and then hot - love and lust and passion and need boiling and bubbling until her entire world erupts into shudders of white hot bliss.

Her voice is croaky when she can finally speak.

“So that's what they mean when they say 'All her Christmases came at once.'”

*

On Christmas Day, the gift exchange is dragging on and on, until Professor Xavier finally calls her name. Her friends go first, giggles and gags and obnoxious smells and colours and noise. Then all eyes turn to him, and he freezes.

It's time.

He brings out the two packages. One is small and exquisitely wrapped, with all the bows and fripperies that the giftwrap girl could offer. The other – he winces, because he can see what a bad job he did, now, but it's too late because Marie's setting the vanilla body cream to one side, and tearing of the paper with gusto.

She looks at the silk sheets, and her jaw drops.

“Logan! They're gorgeous! They're gonna look so good on the bed in our new apartment,” she squeals, and then claps her hands over her mouth, mortified. They had planned to break the news slowly. To Xavier, first, then to her friends, then to whoever else needed to know. (No one, Logan had said, but she had shushed him with a kiss, and then they weren't talking anymore.)

But it's good this way, he realises. Just like that, it's done. Everyone told at once, and it's a fait accompli. The apartment is theirs, only waiting for furniture and her 18th birthday, not necessarily in that order. He's restoring an old sleigh bed as a surprise, and in two days, he'll abduct her from her own birthday party to take her into town, and walk her into their new bedroom with his hands covering her eyes. Then he'll push her back onto that bed, and they'll christen it, and it will be their life, just like that.

He can feel himself letting go of all the negative emotions that he's loaded onto this garish, consumerist holiday, and as the guilt and shame and sadness evaporate, he starts to feel other things. The happiness in the room. The generosity of spirit. The joy in giving.

Christmas, and a miracle has happened.

He's loving it.

_fin_


End file.
